Broken Strings
by simplyleah
Summary: Isabella Swan had a baby at 15. What happens when the baby's dad dies, and Bella's family moves to washington, now with a two-month-old Emsley Swan? Will Bella ever get over Sebastian, and stop trying to play on Broken Strings? AH, AU *Canon pairings*


"_You can't play on broken strings_

_You can't feel anything_

_That your heart don't want to feel_

_I can't tell you something that ain't real."_

-- James Morrison, _Broken Strings_

**Okay, so I'm starting a new story. I've got the first few chapters done, and this is the first. Oh, and I dedicate this story to my soon-to-be-born little brother, and to the love for music I will hopefully help to pass on to him. **

_**Broken Strings **_**is the name of a song by James Morrison, who said some pretty unforgettable things at his concert, about being a kid and how important childhood is. But, either way, I just love James Morrision (**_**This Boy, Please Don't Stop the Rain, **_**and **_**Love is Hard **_**are some of my favorites). By the way, I hate rap, so if you recommend a song it had better not be rap.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own Twilight, and I'm not Stephenie meyer, but I DO own this story, and all of MY characters—including the way that **_**my **_**Bella acts. This is **_**my**_** story. No one else's.**

**Enjoy!**

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The minute Emsley's whimpers sound, I sit straight up in bed and rush to his bassinet. He is lying on his stomach, flailing his arms and legs around as his face begins to turn red. I scoop him up and he buries his head into the crook of my neck, his small head of dark curly hair tickling my chin.

"Shh, baby, shh," I whisper into his hear, bouncing him. He whimpers again. "Emsy, Emsy," I say, and he starts to quiet down. I put him on the center of my bed, on his stomach.

Someone knocks on my door, and I know it's my mom. "Bells, honey?" She pulls the door open a bit, and smiles sadly at me.

"Mom," I say, and my voice cracks. "Please don't call me that. Please."

She bites her lip but nods. "We have to leave in forty-five minutes if you want to get Emsley to day care in time."

"I know," I say, closing my eyes and rubbing my temples. Emsley gurgles, making my mom laugh. I look back at her, and her laughter subsides. "I really don't want to go, mom."

She slips into the room and sits down on the bed. "I know you don't want to go, sweetie. But your father and I would really like it if you did. And you know that if you're going to graduate early you need to go."

I nod, and pull a pair of jeans, my bra, and my underwear from my drawer, along with a navy sweater and white button up shirt. "I know," I say, stepping into my bathroom and closing the door halfway, so my mom can't see me, but I can see her. Pulling my pajama shirt off, I slip on my bra. I look at the scar that runs across my abdomen, from my c-section.

I had gone into labor early, in my 34th week, because of stress. This had scared me so much, because even I, at fifteen, knew that babies born between 34 and 36 weeks are 6 times more likely to die in the first week, and 3 times more likely to die in the first year than those who are in the womb for all nine months. I can't even begin to explain how much this scared me. He only weighed 4.78 pounds and was less than 17 inches from heel to crown.

In the first week, while he was recovering from transient tachypnea, or rapid breathing, he started to develop RDS, or Respiratory Distress Syndrome. His lungs weren't fully developed, so they started by keeping a tube down his throat, but then when his condition of RDS started getting worse—but the transient tachypnea went away—the doctors had to inject doses of surfactant into his system, which only happens in severe cases.

Of course, I was completely freaking out by that point, but they assured me that he was going to be okay, that the chances he wouldn't live were very small, but, to tell you the truth, I was too freaked out to even listen to what they were saying.

But . . . he did end up being okay. Better than okay. _Perfect. _My baby boy, born at 34 weeks, was one of the strongest fighters his doctors had ever seen. And I had no doubt that his father would be proud. Now, at three months, Emsley was doing just as well as any other preemie would be, aside from the medication I need to put into his milk three times a day for his lungs. It was like . . . like a song that starts out angry, loud, and painful, but towards the end slows, with just the occasional loud beat, into a soft conclusion.

Shaking myself from these thoughts, I slip my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and button it up, then pull on my jeans and navy sweater. "You're picking him up at eleven?" I ask, for the hundredth time since my mom had told me that Emsley would be going to a special day care program for preemies while I was at school. I put on a bit of foundation, and then throw on a bit of mascara. No eyeliner for me.

"Yes, Isabella, I'm picking him up at eleven, and you're coming home for lunch and are leaving school at two instead of three."

"Why is that, again?" I ask, taking Emsley from my mother's arms and carrying him down the stairs of our relatively new home and into the bright kitchen. The large window above the sink, and the one that takes up nearly half of the back wall lets in the sunshine, muted by the never ending cover of clouds—and easily letting me see the snow that covers the ground, but, thankfully, is not falling from the sky.

"Your father and I made it so your free period was last, assuring that you could come home early. The nurse, vice principle, and your homeroom teacher all know about Emsley, but they all promised your father they would not tell a word to any other students or teachers."

"But, since dad's the principle, shouldn't I be able to miss?" I smile innocently, seating Emsley in his chair.

My mother frowns at me. "No, honey, it's for that reason exactly that he wants you to be there. What kind of message would he be sending if his own daughter didn't go to school?"

"Uh, maybe-the-message-that-his-daughter-got-pregnant-at-fifteen-and-has-a-son-she-needs-to-take-care-of?" Alice, my thirteen year old sister, says, skipping into the kitchen. Alice doesn't like spaces. You can tell once you've heard her speak. She's wearing a patterned high-waisted skirt and a white v-neck.

"Thanks, Allie, but I really don't need the entire school knowing that," I say, frowning. Her black spikes of short hair bounce as she jumps in place. She tends to be a bit . . . hyper.

"Which is why you need to go," Mom says, and her tone makes it clear that this is the end of the conversation. I sigh, but leave it be and go get the baby formula. I put the bottle in the microwave and be sure to test it before adding his medication. I hold it in front of his mouth, and he eagerly grasps the nipple between his lips, sucking greedily. Alice takes my place, holding the bottle for him, while I grab some banana baby food, his favorite. While he finishes his bottle—with Alice's help—I grab some cereal, Lucky Charms, and dump it into the bowl. I take a spoonful, and just as I'm about to scarf it down, Mom clears her throat.

"Yeah?"

"What about having some milk, honey?"

I sigh, again, but get up and grab my 2% from the fridge, splashing some into the bowl. "Happy?" Mom rolls her eyes, but nods. She glances at her watch.

"Fifteen minutes, Isabella."

"Yeah, yeah." Emsley finishes his bottle then, and I open up his baby food can. He smiles a toothless grin, but then falls into a round of coughing. "Oh, sweetie" I say, picking him up and patting his back. His small coughs rack his little body, and I rock him. When his coughing finally slows, he starts to cry, sounding panicked. I guess I'm not the only one the coughing scares. "You're okay, baby. You're fine. Mommy's here. Daddy, too, baby." His crying quiets to whimpers, like he knows what I'm talking about, and wants to focus on listening. "Yeah, baby. Daddy loves you so much."

I carry my baby from the room, and into the hall, wear tons of pictures hang. I look for the ones of Sebastian and I. I point to the one of him and me at one of his football games freshman year, where he doesn't look so sick. "See, baby? That's Daddy, right there." Sebastian had dark brown locks and deep blue eyes, like the color of the ocean. His skin is naturally olive-toned, but in all of the pictures of him and me, he looks pale. Tired. But we didn't notice until it was too late.

Sebastian died of pancreatic cancer two months before I was supposed to have Emsley—but only two _days _before I actually did. That's when I stopped. Stopped . . . playing. Listening to music. Doing the things I love. Now Emsley is the only thing that holds me down. Emsley makes gurgling noises, and I take it that he's agreeing. "Yeah, baby. That's him." Emsley was the name Sebastian wanted. Even though he was 16, even though he knew that the baby would change everything, Sebastian had been excited. I wanted to name him Alexander, after my grandfather, or Elizabeth. He just wanted Emsley. He was dead set on the baby being a boy, and he was right. And we weren't alone—both of our families were supportive, and were going to help us get through it. But then the 'us' turned into 'me', and Sebastian's family pulled away. They didn't want any part in their grandchild's life . . . and that was okay with me. No matter how much it hurt, I was okay with it . . . because they were just another painful reminder. Like the music. All the songs, and the concerts.

"He misses you too, you know?" I whisper, holding Emsley tighter. I look into the soft eyes of the only man I'd ever truly loved, and knew that he was the only one who would ever feel that way about me—and that he was the only one I would _want_ to feel that way about me. "I love you, baby. You and your daddy."

"Bella!" Alice yells from the kitchen. "You've-got-five-minutes! Mom's-going-to-go-get-her-bag-together! You-better-hurry-up!" I swear, it can be _impossible_ to understand this girl!

I touch my lips to my fingers, and touch my fingers to Seb's face. I bury my face in Emsley's hair before saying, "Kay. Thanks Alice!"

I run upstairs, to the room that would one day be Emsley's, and change his diaper before dressing him in a long-sleeved onezie, a t-shirt with a monster on it, jeans with fabric on the inside, and a fuzzy brown coat with bear ears on the hood. I cuddle Emsley into my chest while throwing his diaper bag together, and grab his car seat in one hand, tossing the bag into the seat.

As I walk down the steps, I whisper in his ear. "Mommy's going to be gone a little bit today, baby. But I'll see you later, yeah?" He gurgles and waves his arms. I put the seat down and slip my feet into my boots.

Grabbing the keys to my pearl RX Hybrid 10, I manage to open the front door with my elbow.

"Want-some-help?" Alice appears at my side.

"Uh, _yeah._"

She laughs and grabs the car seat. I hold Emsley tighter and pull up his hood, making sure his boots are on right. In December, Bainbridge Island can be scary. There's snow on the ground, and I remember that I need to get myself a raincoat.

Maybe an umbrella would be a good idea, too.

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**Well . . . how was it?? Don't you just **_**love **_**Emsley? Isn't he so adorable? God, my lil' bro had better be like that! Haha:)**

**So, review review! Getonwithit! I'll update sooner!**


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